Dear Blaine Anderson
by aforallyyyyyyx
Summary: Blaine is a high school senior that flounders when Sebastian Smythe decides to end his life carrying Blaine's personal letter that he wrote in his pocket. Struggling between his crush on Sebastian's grieving cousin, Kurt, and telling the truth, Blaine creates a fiction in which he and Sebastian were actually friends, despite not knowing him at all. [Based on Dear Evan Hansen]


**DISCLAIMER: This is basically a rip off of _Dear Evan Hansen_ , but with the characters of _Glee_. I just thought the concept was really interesting and so I decided to do a fanfiction of it. I do not own _Glee_ or the Broadway musical _Dear Evan Hansen_. I have categorized this as a Glee fanfiction, just because this is meant to be a retelling of Glee (more specifically Klaine) using the plot of Dear Evan Hansen. It doesn't have any of the DEH characters in it at all.**

 **If you haven't seen or heard of the musical, you don't have to have done so to read. It's just really really good, so I totally recommend it.**

 **TRIGGER WARNINGS: For this work, I would definitely say (some) strong language, thoughts of suicide, suicide, mentioned use of drugs (though it doesn't get specific), anxiety, social anxiety, and in general, just the character Sebastian being an asshole.**

 **also, this is set in Season 3 of Glee, but pretty much everyone is a senior, just to have things make sense, and Sebastian attends McKinley. That's all. :)**

* * *

 _22nd August, 2011_

 _Dear Blaine Anderson,_

 _"This is going to be a good day, and here's why."_  
 _I know it seems presumptuous to be writing a letter to myself. What kind of drug is Miss Pillsbury on? I'll probably be the same old person by the end of this assignment thing she has me doing._  
 _She gave me the assignment yesterday, but I couldn't bring myself to write anything before now. I'm not good with words…this is really hard._

 _At home, I have a picture somewhere within my desktop that's bleeding. The petals are white, and red liquid oozes from its heart, thick and glistening warm. Only, if you look very close, you can see the droplets are coming from above, where my wrist- camouflaged by a cluster of leaves- has been pricked by thorns as I reached inside to catch a monarch._

 _I used to wonder why I risked getting sliced up just to have a picture of me touching a butterfly. But now, I suppose it makes sense: I wanted those wings so I could fly away, because the pain of trying to reach for them was more tolerable than the pain of staying grounded, wherever I was…_

Blaine stopped typing (with one hand, his other arm was in a cast) suddenly, forcing back an eye roll. Was this really what Miss Pillsbury wanted from him? To get really deep while talking about himself, just to have a letter of hope to get him through his senior year?

Blaine didn't need a letter of hope. He wrote the passage about the butterfly, aiming for something that spoke for _him_ , but all it did was just prove how sad he really was inside. But Miss Pillsbury was helping him, _truly_ helping him, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Push all of this away.

Blaine hit the delete key multiple times, getting rid of the part about Miss Pillsbury giving him the assignment. When he gave the letter to her for her to read, he wanted her to think that he did this for him, not for her.

 _Or at least have a picture of me flying away. Prove I'm okay, you know? I'm not. I'm not okay. Maybe post it to Facebook, but I don't have a Facebook. Plus, to get there, I would have to show I bled on the thorns at some point. I'm not at all into that, either. It wouldn't make sense at all for people to see…_

Blaine read it all over again, and deleted the quotation marks around "this is going to be a good day, and here's why".

 _…that I'm not…_

Blaine shut down his desktop completely. It was no use; he was never going to get this done by tomorrow. He would be here all night. With one last glance at the calendar above his desk, he walked over to his bed, shut the light off, and fell asleep with the sound of the summer rain battering on the thin roof. It would have to wait.

* * *

In the morning, it was still raining. They were saying in the newspaper that this was the wettest summer that they'd had in Lima for many years. That morning, Blaine found it difficult to get up. Pamela, his mother, served him breakfast as he came bleary eyed down the stairs, his backpack hung around one shoulder. It held his laptop, most of the salvageable school supplies from last year, and only a few new pockets of lined notebook paper. He ate breakfast quietly, without looking much at his mother, who was staring right at the top of his bent down, hair-gel covered head.

"Someone's tired this morning," commented Pam, "Are you ready for your first last day of high school?"  
Blaine's stomach flipped upon hearing the over-used joke. His relatives could comment about his height all they wanted- even though he was a senior this year- and repeat the most-used saying on earth, but it would never calm his nerves.

"You okay?" Pam lightly stroked his shoulder, like the way a mother does, but all Blaine felt was nervous. "Have you been writing those letters to yourself?"

"I started one," said Blaine, as if that would prove anything at all- _hey, look, mom, I'm not that basket-case son that can't do anything for himself-_ he did the assignment.

"Miss Pillsbury said that those letters are important in helping to build your confidence," Pam said in response, trudging on ahead with the minuscule conversation, which neither mother or son could think of anything to continue it with. "She said it would help."

"I guess."

There was an awkward silence that hung in the air. "Well, I just want you to know that I'm here. In fact, can we try a more optimistic outlook? Maybe that'll help. After all, maybe this year you'll choose to not completely give up before you've even tried. Maybe you'll make some friends!"

"I doubt it."

"Where's this attitude coming from?" Pam asked, even though she already knew the answer. It came from the fact that her son had severe social anxiety, and relied on medication to get through the day without banging his head into a wall, screaming, and committing some kind of homicide for all the world to see. Maybe that was exaggerating.

But in truth, Blaine was not functioning well, and they both knew it. Pam tried her best to think of ways to fix it (fix him?) but so far, each suggestion was worst that the last.

"Hey, I know! You can go around and try and get the other kids to sign your cast! How about that?" Pam's most recent idea struck a chord of fear in Blaine, but who was he to be his own prohibitor of "recovery"?

"Oh, good.." he said, nervous laughter breaking through. "Why would anyone want to do that? I'm not five anymore."

"I know that," nodded Pam, not seeing that this was a pretty bad idea, "But just try. Maybe go ask that Sam Evans kid, the son of Rose, my friend from the night school? This is going to be so great. I'm proud of you already."

Blaine smiled begrudgingly, unable to deny the source of his mother's happiness- his health. He took another look at the clock, which now read 7:43 AM. "I should go," he said apologetically, "See you later."

He left.

* * *

 _Sebastian_

Everyone is going to die.

You could wake up, get out of bed, trip over a pair of sneakers on the way to the bathroom, fall down the stairs, and break your neck. You could get some crazy disease that can't be cured. You could cross the street and get hit by a car. You could have a brain aneurysm, or maybe choke on a piece of hot dog like Finn Hudson did during lunch Freshman year. While most of us were standing there with our mouths open, thinking, _do something!_ Quinn Fabray crashed through the tables and chairs, grabbed Finn around the middle, and jammed her small fists up under Finn's rib cage until the small piece of meat shot out of Finn's mouth.

Finn lived, but another minute and he could have been brain dead, which is pretty much like being dead, or he could have been dead-dead.

The point is, you die. Most of the time, you don't see it coming. Sebastian's death just was a really, really bad exception.

For example, Sebastian used to sometimes cover his head with a black hoodie, thinking it'd help him be invisible. But a seventeen-year-old male walking the streets alone in a hoodie automatically invites suspicion. He swore it's why he was once questioned by an officer, one time. He gave the guy some story about how he was on his way home, and he let Sebastian off with a warning. Sometimes, he wore a baseball cap. The front hung over his face like a duck's bill, casting a shadow that he tried to hide in.

Tonight, however, had been uneventful, unlike the kinds of things that he'd usually get himself into. He looked up at his house through his windshield, he was sitting in his car- it was dark, except for the light in the kitchen, the one left on to scare away the robbers.

 _Tap, tap, tap._ Sebastian jumped. Kurt Hummel's face peered through his car window. His brown hair was swept to the side, mussed in the way that he must have just gotten out of bed. It was the middle of the night.

"What the hell?" Sebastian opened the door.

"Nice to see you, too, Mr. High and Grumpy."

Kurt pulled his cousin out of the car. Sebastian, having no choice but to follow, headed after him, his energy waning. He had just wanted to sneak in without the parentals catching him and chewing him out. In a couple of strides, Sebastian was even with Kurt.

"Where've you been?" Kurt said, "You're lucky I'm here to save you. Dad's up and about."

"At four A.M.?" Sebastian slurred, "What're you doing up?"

Kurt climbed into the window on his first floor bedroom decidedly, "Early morning facial routine. I figured you'd be out getting drunk. School starts in three hours, you know."

"Yeah, whatever," said Sebastian as he climbed inside, too. That was one of the last conversations that they had.

* * *

Mornings in the Hummel household were far different from the two Andersons' mornings. Kurt, for one, was awake and brightly chewing his eggs for breakfast, a tablet sitting beside his plate with the latest fashion articles from _._ Someday, Kurt hoped to write for them.

Kurt's father, Burt, was at the table, as well. He was Sebastian's uncle. For moments within their childhood had Kurt questioning if Burt really cared at all about Sebastian, even though he acted like it. Sebastian just made things incredibly difficult for them all.

"It's your senior year, Sebastian, you are not missing the first day!" said Carole Hummel as she chased the tall boy into the kitchen, swatting him with a dish towel- only Carole Hummel would do dishes on a Wednesday morning.

"I already said I'd go tomorrow," Sebastian said, purposefully obnoxious, "Jesus, quit trying to be my damn mom all the time!"  
Kurt looked up from his tablet to see Burt's glancing in his direction.

"He's not listening, look at him! He's probably high." Burt said, unimpressed, while Kurt leaned forward slightly to say, "Oh, definitely."

"I don't want you going to school high, Sebastian!" Carole said sternly, throwing her hands in the air. She wanted it to be the last time.

"Perfect," Sebastian purred, "So I won't go. Thanks, _mom_." He emphasized 'mom', even though he fully believed Carole was not his mother. It struck a nerve.

He eventually fell silent. Kurt simply raised his eyebrows, knowing that this was what you got with a household added Sebastian.

* * *

"Interstate's pretty jammed," Burt said casually, his hands on the wheel of the car. Kurt barely looked up from his phone to tell that he was just making small talk.

Sebastian sat crossly in the front seat next to Burt. If he had his way, he would be in the back seat of a friend's car, toasting to freedom and taking shots like there was no tomorrow. If he had his way, he wouldn't be here at _all_...

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. Reviews are always appreciated!**

 **-Ally :)**


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